


Seasweptmemories

by orphan_account



Series: All my erisol in one heckin folder [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dancing around romance for ages bc they're dorks, First Kisses, M/M, collegestuck au, credit to rawramidget tho, even if i rly didnt, i just wanted 2 try out to expand on it i guess?, prompts, they made the original idea, w/e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which romance is danced around for ages because both of them are awful at romance but pretty hecking gay for each other and it works out anyways.(All the credit for the original idea goes to Rawramidget, not me, from their fic Internet Boyfriend)





	

He’s the one hipster blog you dare to follow, with your platform of playing video games the way you do. He’s a kid at your school, in the same history class as you. He sits in the front, unlike you, but you’re allowed to admire him from a safe distance.

You only know his blog because he’s friends with FF, and she interacts with his blog a ton.

Fucking Seasweptmemories, with his lush bath bomb pictures and pictures of the ocean and him swimming in the cold, foggy mornings. He’s cute, no denying it, but he annoys you to no end.

He gets a rise out of you that most people can’t, and it makes you a little angry at yourself. It’s your own fault, and your memory for pretty faces.

You post pictures of the new video games you got, and he reblogs them. You delete them.

You post pictures of the record shop you work at part time, and he reblogs them with cute aesthetic quotes. You delete them, irrationally flustered.

He posts pictures of himself, and you do your best to ignore the way his eyes are so pretty and bright in the morning sun, and the softness of his skin after he swims. Your face burns as you save the pictures onto your laptop, giving him his own little folder titled “Eridan”. 

You tried calling him Seasweptmemories but it never stuck, and you ended up using his real name. 

He’s the most attractive person you’ve ever seen. He’s got pale skin littered with freckles, darker little dots over his skin reminding you of little stars. 

He posts pictures of bees, and you (reluctantly) reblog them, praising him for managing to get a picture of one. Even if it’s just the bombus species. He replies to the praise like a starved little kid, little heart emojis at the end of his reply. 

God, he’s cute.

He posts one of those ask requests, and they flood your dash, asking him about his hair dye, what he looks like, what he likes.

Or who he likes.

Your heart sinks when he says yes, he does have a crush. A cute boy in his history class who slouches in the back and has never talked to him before, but has braces and bicolored eyes. And glasses.

You pause for a moment, fingertips pausing on your keyboard. That sounds like you. But...he wouldn’t like some neckbeard like you who wears the same fucking Zelda shirt every day for a week straight because he forgets, and has awful acne, and a scratchy voice.

You ask him, on anon. He doesn’t have to know. He’ll never know it was you. You ask him for the name of his crush. 

You wait.

Two agonizing minutes of refreshing your dashboard till you see the response.

Your name. Your full name, not just your nickname “Sol” or “Sollux”.

He calls you Solluxander Captor.

You snort in amusement despite yourself, not used to seeing your full name anymore. It’s rare that anybody calls you by the name, unless it’s formal. Then it hits you, that all the little stolen glances at him haven’t exactly been one sided. 

You see him the next day in history class, walking past his row to get to yours, meeting his eyes briefly. You can feel your cheeks flaming, and you’ve never even talked to him. You can barely focus the rest of history period, snatching little glances at him. 

He leaves the class hurriedly, and you run after him. You need to talk to him.

“Eridan!”

Your shout echoes over the grounds in the fog of the twilight, louder than you expected it to be. He startles, half tripping and turning towards you with an expression like a startled deer. He looks like he’s scared of you almost, scared of your reactions. 

You swallow thickly, throat dry all the sudden. “What is it?” he asks, wobbling over his w like he always does. It’s endearing, and you dig your nails into your palms.

You wish you had thought this out beforehand. You reach out towards him, thin fingertips curling around his wrist. He lets you, expression hesitant like he isn’t sure why you’re doing this.

“You, uh. I. We, uhm..I like you. A lot, kinda. And thtuff, yeah. I thought you might want to know,” you whisper, in a rapid decrescendo. You feel yourself lighting on fire, and you suddenly wish you could disappear into the ground beneath you.

Suddenly, the cicadas on campus seem much louder than they are as he stares at you. 

You don’t dare look back.

He shuffles a little, chilly fingertips finding your cheek. His breath ghosts over your lips, then chapped lips press to yours and you squeak in a way you’ll deny later.

He doesn’t speak, but you don’t need him to.

You slip easily into his arms, small and shivering compared to his warmer, softer frame. His chilly hand slip up your shirt, resting against your back, palms flat and cold against your skin. You bury your face against his shoulder, breath warm against his collarbones “You’re so oblivious. Dumbass..you’ve been making doe eyes at me all semester, I know. ”

You grimace despite yourself “...Yeah, thorry,” you whisper, not wanting to move away from him. It’s snowing, the little chilly snowflakes melting when they hit your cheek. He just tilts your head up a little “Never said I minded,” he responds.

And he kisses you, slow and soft and a little sloppy. You try to speed up the kiss on instinct, but he squeezes your sides reassuringly and coaxes you to relax into his arms until you’re hanging off of him by the waist. 

He doesn’t seem to mind the way you’re leaning on him, because he pets at your face and coos “Don’t be,” he whispers.

And despite all the things you’ve done wrong, maybe.

Maybe you can make this work.


End file.
